Chaque seconde
by Desert Butterfly Kana
Summary: "Francis had christened him, and the landmass he represented. He had possessed him, held him, made him his property, all without ever touching him in the wrong way or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time."


_**Author's notes: **_Aaaalright, so...this is my first time writing a non-Het fic. Hetalia got me into yaoi, and I just _had _to write something about on of my favourite pairings.  
>Also, well, my French is a bit rusty, so I apologize if there are some mistakes; I didn't want to use Google Translator, so I just kind of...went by memory and instinct xD<em><strong><strong>_

_**oOoOoOoOoO**_

_**Chaque seconde**_

The air in the closet felt suspended, almost as if time had been caught and slowed down within those four, scraped walls.  
>Consequently, Matthew found himself unconsciously holding his breath, vaguely afraid that exhaling would set the present into motion; and that was the last thing he wanted to happen. His back hurt from being pressed against the hard concrete of the wall, his hair was so tangled that, when Francis pulled his head forward to place warm, wet kisses on his jawline, he whimpered quietly.<p>

Francis cursed lightly in French, but didn't make a move to free his fingers from Matthew's locks. Instead, he pressed the Canadian boy further, burying his face at the base of Matthew's neck and grasping the back of his shirt with his free hand.

Matthew wondered inwardly about the feeling that was currently invading every part of his body; the current situation definitely wasn't putting him in the right position to muse about things, so the first thing that came to his mind was that _one single _time, last Christmas, when he got drunk at his brother's holiday estate. He had never had a drop of alcohol before, and nothing similar occurred after that. After all, he had experienced an awfully painful hangover on the morning after, and he had made Alfred swear on his beloved mother's – whoever she was - head that he'd never let him close to anything remotely alcoholic from then on.

Wait. Wait up there a second.  
>Was he seriously implying that foreplay with Francis equalled a drunken evening in Nantucket?<br>Matthew had no idea. He had no other frame of reference, anyway. But yeah, thinking back in time…that was definitely it, or at least a close definition.  
>Some feelings were, to put it simply, the same. Boiling rivets of air escaping his lips, the fighting between numbness and reactions in his lower abdomen, his whole bloodstream being set on fire with every sip, the throbbing sensation of feeling his heart melt in his chest, the dizziness of his head spinning around and around to no end, and…did Francis use absinthe as a fragrance, by any chance?<p>

The Canadian nuzzled the crown of Francis' head with his nose, taking in the strange, intoxicating mixture that was the Frenchman's scent. Actually, it didn't smell like alcohol in the literal sense…more like fruit-flavoured liquor. Cherries, maybe.  
>Francis had always had that precious smell accompanying him everywhere, since the very first time he hugged him. Matthew was barely a child back then, but it struck him like nothing ever did before.<p>

For someone who believed himself to be the personification of sex, Francis had managed to raise Matthew in a responsible yet sweet, jolly way that made him appear like a brother figure, rather than a father. He was never his "Papa", he was his "nii-chan".  
>But then, as the years and decades passed by, Matthew considered his bond with Francis, he deeply and (albeit with some difficulties) objectively compared it with the one he had with Alfred, and…he came up with nothing but a confused mind. He may have been a Nation – and a large one at that - , but his hormones and brain kept screaming <em>teenager<em>.

Maybe, he was somehow scared to admit his fondness for the handsome French man; it wasn't a student-teacher crush, and he knew he didn't have to drag in Freud's theories or a same-sex version of Oedipus' story. He knew his feelings had settled. For how long had they been so crystal-clear to him?  
>He felt a pang in his heart at the thought. Years, decades…maybe forever. Maybe his whole life until now, through treaties, changes in Europe's dominion, wars spread across his and Alfred's land…More than four hundred and seventy years since Matthew first heard his own name rolling off Francis' tongue in that exotic, melodious, lullaby-like accent; since Francis' arms had gently picked him up off the ground of a North-American forest, dubbed him "<em>Nouvelle France<em>", and wrapped his curl around his index finger, chanting _"T'es mien, mon chou."_.

Francis had christened him, and the landmass he represented. He had possessed him, held him, made him his property, all without ever touching him in the wrong way or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. His smiles had always been loving, yet charming, and Matthew's heart hadn't had another choice: he had simply let Francis' magnetism enchant him. He had let him sway Canada along French notes.

The memories hurt, they still made his heart clench, of course. But Matthew couldn't deny that, even back then, when he still was little more than a toddler, his feelings had definitely settled.  
>But his mind had settled itself as well. Yeah.<br>On the certainty that he was nothing different of an adopted child, to the object of his lust.

Oh, well. Until now.  
>Until Francis had dragged him away in the middle of a pause in the G8 conference they were taking part in, and locked them in that closet. Until Matthew had felt Francis' hands grabbing his tie and cornering him against the wall. And well, until Francis had kissed him in such a fierce way that Matthew had had to grasp the French man's shirt to keep his hands from shaking, managing to snatch a button away in the process.<br>He wasn't scared, not at all. He just didn't know how to control the rush of blood that sped through each of his limbs and was making his brain cells twitch.

Strangely, he had never noticed that Francis was slightly shorter than him; he realised it in that very moment in which he wrapped his left leg around his former caretaker's hip, drawing him closer and shivering at the contact with his growing arousal.  
>Biting back a moan, Matthew's hands reached further inside Francis' shirt, blindly trying to unbutton it despite the blurriness that coated his vision; he had left his glasses on the table of the conference room, and the only way he could tell what was going on was thanks to his hands and the feeling of the Frenchman's fingers drawing burning paths up his sweaty back. He could see Francis' violet eyes, so much like his own, his eyelids slightly lowered, his strawberry blond locks falling messily along his cheeks, a subtle, charming smirk playing at his lips.<p>

Francis' breath came in long exhalations, radically different from Matt's short, anxious gasps; the Frenchman's hands moved with such a synchronized, elegant pace that it looked like he had done nothing but this in his whole life.

_Right__._

Matthew swallowed at the realisation, his hand involuntarily forming a fist inside the other's almost completely opened shirt. He knew that many people had been in his "crush"'s bed. This was no news to Matthew, just like foreplay and _ars amatoria_ were no news to Francis.

He tried to push the thought aside, tried to ignore the battling feelings in his head: jealousy? Fear that his inexperience might interfere? Fear that he was only going to be another tally on Francis' bed?

"Christ…". Matthew said the word out loud, unconsciously.  
>He felt the urge to bang his head against the wall for even just thinking that Francis would consider him a one-night-stand, or what the hell was the correct expression for someone who jumps in your bed with you knowing, at the very most, their name. Francis would never do that to his former colony, to his <em>chou<em>, to the little child he found in the woods, centuries before. Never.  
>Would he?<p>

"What's wrong, Mathieu?". Francis' voice cut through his thoughts, his expression puzzled and…worried?

Matthew tried to force his head to shake, tried to force his voice to say "No, it's alright. Keep going.". But he couldn't. He couldn't help but thinking that probably no one had ever interrupted foreplay or any sexual activity, in Francis' experience.  
>'<em>What the hell is wrong with me?'<em>, he shouted inwardly, his hands still glued to the other's chest and back, not even bothering to gather the strength to pull away.  
>'<em>What the fuck am I doing?'<em>  
>He felt millions, maybe billions of emotions piling up in his throat. He felt scared (how, <em>how <em>could he possibly be scared of Francis, of all people?), ashamed (he had knew him for centuries, what was there to be ashamed of?), rejected (why now? When Francis had walked off, he had promised himself that there would've been no chance that Francis or Arthur would ever see him mourning over Francis' goodbye…so why bother now?), childish (what had he been expecting, for all those centuries? What? That 'someday' Francis would've turned around, magically produced a bouquet of red roses and told him: "Oh, Mathieu! Nevermind all those decades of you waiting for me, and me never explaining my surrender in Versailles. You're the one for me, let's elope together!") and overall idiotic (he had waited for something like that for almost half a millennium…was that the right time to start doubting Francis' honesty?).

Francis' index finger traced a path from Matthew's earlobe to his chin and tilted it up, forcing the Canadian to meet his eyes.  
>"Mathieu…I can't read your mind."<br>Matthew nodded vigorously, praying that his eyes would stop burning and prickling the way they were. He bit his lip, knowing that he couldn't lie to the Frenchman, and, at the same time, regretting the moment he didn't stop Francis from dragging him in that closet.

Francis sighed, his expression now more focused and concerned, rather than confused, his thumb lightly caressing Matthew's soft cheek: "Mathieu…you must never forget that I _created_ you. We don't share the same blood and I'm not your father, nor your brother…I don't feel related to you in those ways. But believe me: you were a piece of me in another continent, and you always will be. _Nouvelle France_." His expression turned softer, a tender spark gleaming in his eyes. He raised his head to place his lips near Matthew's ear and whispered: "By the way…sometimes I do think you're a better France than me, in many ways. But don't tell anyone, _je t'en pris_."

Matthew chuckled lightly; a long-restrained single tear managed to roll down his cheek and was caught by Francis' thumb. Even with that stranded tear, they could both feel that the atmosphere had chilled out a bit, and Matthew dared to let his left hand slide up Francis' torso, tentatively placing his palm just above the Frenchman's heart.  
>He could feel it beating steadily, sweetly, almost like a melody; it wasn't frantic like his own, but it was somehow just as intense; he peered at Francis' face with the corner of his eyes, and saw him looking silently at his former colony, his brow furrowed, though his lips relaxed into a soft smile when he caught a glimpse of Matthew's uncertain expression.<p>

"Have you ever done…", Francis started to ask, but trailed off, carefully weighing the words up. Suddenly, as he looked in Matthew's dubious, longing indigo eyes, he felt like he couldn't be the blunt sexual freak he usually was. He just didn't have it in him, to use matter-of-fact-ish words and questions, in that situation.  
>Not with Matthew. Not with <em>son bien-aimé, son Mathieu<em>.

He knew all too well that his former Canadian protectorate was an adult, and he surely displayed all the maturity and wit that had earned him his independence from Arthur. He was taller than both him and England, with a finely-crafted chest and broad shoulders, and a vague smell of bark, musk and maple that surrounded him like an enthralling aura. And all this clashed and moulded beautifully with his delicate facial features…his tinted, rosy cheeks...his violet, pristine irises and his long eyelashes…his plump, supple lips…his tangled, strawberry-blond hair, curling in velvety locks at the sides of his quiet, yearning, breath-takingly beautiful face.

Francis realised that he had been eyeing Matthew up for about two months before that day. He had never noticed before, that…that, if he wasn't so sure that Canada was a Nation (thus someone who had generated from nothing) he might as well have been the lovechild of something earthy and something angelic. As if…a seraphim and a human being made love and gave birth to the creature that was currently standing in front of him, with his fingers clinging on his opened shirt, slightly crouching so that his sand-tinted locks were pressed against Francis' collarbone, his parted lips leaning like feathers against his neck, his teeth unconsciously grazing his pulse.

What had happened between them…the few years they passed together, when he first discovered that small, newborn Country in the New Continent…the memories always made Francis sigh. In nostalgia, regret, fear, rage…he remembered walking with that child in his arms, fallen maple leaves creaking under his steps; he remembered cradling that baby, a strange, hazy feeling filling up his proud, French heart like nothing had before; he remembered teaching Matthew everything, the intense way that baby looked at him, eagerly taking in every word he could.  
>He knew Arthur had treated Canada well, after the Treaty, but there were so many mantras playing in Francis' mind, ever since 1783. No one knew that the painting of Napoleon hanging in his bedroom actually hid a fist-shaped hole in the wall. He had medicated his hand by himself, after all.<p>

Oh, when no one could see him, he cried for that baby, for losing him…for losing the only creature who might have proven that he could deal with something both frail and huge like a baby colony. For everything. For his goddamn pride, for his stupid personality. For the walls he had assembled around his heart, and that had never let him acknowledge that, yes, he could see Canada.  
>He could see him all too well. He was there, sitting at that table, with the Allies, during World conferences, G8 meetings. Listening to Germany's speeches, feeding his polar bear, biting the back of his pencil, staring out of the window, knowing that he couldn't be heard. He was there, the living embodiment of Francis' biggest failure, his fastest surrender, his most heartbreaking separation.<p>

Francis took in a deep, _very _deep cool-down breath (when on Holy Earth had he ever needed to do that, during a sexual encounter?) and, to his own surprise (because…since when did he ever speak in a low tone for different purposes than seducing?), he whispered:  
>"How far have you gone with…someone?"<p>

Matthew was quiet for about a minute; he bit his lower lip, his brain going through the memories of his rather innocent life…and his _extremely_ innocent sex life.

As his mind hit the memory he was trying to push aside, he groaned in disbelief at himself, mentally recalling the event:  
>'There was that time I got drunk and…yes, last Christmas' night in Nantucket…and…Jesus, I was lying on the couch because my head kept spinning and I had no idea where I'd left my glasses…or maybe I still had them on and my vision was clouded because of all those empty bottles and shots and glasses that were laying on Alfred's floor and carpet and every possible table…and honestly, if they would've asked me "What's your Capital?" I wouldn't have had the faintest idea…and then bloody Alfred comes over and starts slapping me out of nowhere…and I get mad and push him away and he decides that "it's time for some fresh air". And before I know it, he's dragging me outside and it's snowing and we're both in our pyjamas…and he suddenly slips on an ice sheet and falls on his back, and <em>God <em>he starts yelling like a madman, yelling that he's having a concussion or his skull is blasting and…could I please check that his precious, genial brain isn't gone? …yes, I check. I kneel down, _straddle him_ and check. And I even kiss his forehead better, for good measure. And the idiot _bloody_ grabs my head and drags me back down…and…and, fuck, I just went with it because he looked so blatantly, exaggeratedly hurt that Arthur couldn't meet him that night, and because, if I had gotten up at that precise moment, I would have fainted or thrown up or who knows what. And because I didn't really care much…and that's it, pretty much. My great, experiences-clogged sex life. I made out with my own, stupid, hero-wannabe twin brother on Christmas Eve, in my pyjamas, on a frozen pond in Massachusetts, after drowning down half of his surprisingly huge stash of booze.'

Matthew swallowed slowly and stared at the floor.  
>Yeah. Suuuure.<br>He hated lying, especially to Francis, but there was _no way _on Earth he was going to tell him about _that_.

He swallowed again and opted for keeping quiet about his drunken-and-semi-incestuous make-out session; he just cleared his throat, shook his head and muttered: "I've done…nothing…nothing much."

In spite of the clattering of thoughts that was going on in his head, he felt his cheeks reddening, and when Francis' arms sneaked around his back, hugging him tighter, he exhaled abruptly.  
>"Nothing wrong with that, Mathieu.", Francis said softly in his ear, making him blush even more. "I kind of…like the idea of having you in beginner mode."<br>He smirked and, by that time, Matthew could clearly feel his throat drying up and his vision going blurry once again.

But, he realised as he made the first move and grabbed Francis' tie to pull him close, it really didn't matter.  
>'<em>I've wanted this for more than four centuries.'<em>

He dipped his tongue in-between the Frenchman's warm lips, bending his head to the side and plunging his fingers among Francis' golden locks; he didn't bother to part from him when he felt a small trail of saliva straining down the corner of both of their mouths, and neither did Francis. It was a feverish, wet, boiling hot kiss, and, to Matthew, it was something so new and so enticing that, if someone had opened the door of the closet in that precise instant, and caught him making out with his former caretaker, with one hand working on Francis' belt and the other struggling to get his own shirt off…he would've pretty much kept going.

Francis' hands slipped down along Matthew's newly-exposed chest, and everywhere the Frenchman laid his fingers, the other could feel a burning trace going downwards, until it brushed over his abdomen and made him shudder involuntarily, making a single, chocked, demanding word leave his lips: "_More…_"

There was something both moving and sensual about Matthew's voice, at that moment, that Francis just couldn't ignore. Something clicked in his mind, as he felt Matthew's hand sliding past the button of his suit's pants and his thumb and index finger started stroking Francis' length, slowly and surprisingly steadily.  
>He just had to…love this guy. Love him, love him earnestly and in every possible way…even if it was just limited to those four walls; even if it'd have to be a secret; even if, out of there, they could only keep on pretending that they had nothing to do with each-other.<br>Before his mind went blank for the increasing pleasure caused by the friction of Matthew's palm against his member, his free hand climbed its way back up his former colony's torso and cupped his cheek.  
>He planted a soft, lust-free kiss near the corner of Matthew's eye, tasting his sweat, breathing against the tense, silky skin of his temple.<p>

'_In this closet, in this room, in this place forgotten by whoever writes history…in this place where it's just you and me…now that I see you clearly, now that all I can hear is your breath…you are mine, Canada.'_

A sudden, quicker pace took over Matthew's actions inside Francis' boxers, and the Frenchman leaned with his back against the wall, knocking over a broom and taking hold of the other's hair, his lips parted in a content, frenzied gasp. Matthew responded by rubbing his knuckles over the underside of Francis' shaft and lowering his head against France's shoulder, drawing a path until he met his neck and took that bristly, perfumed skin between his lips and started suckling. At first gently, his mouth barely encircling the skin, then, as he repositioned his hand inside the other's pants and let his thumb stroke the head of the Frenchman's length, he replaced his lips with the tips of his teeth and bit down onto Francis' neck, a subtle smirk plastered on his face when he saw Francis bend his head backwards with a long sigh:  
>"<em>Mon…Dieu…<em>"

Matthew bit his own upper lip, hard, trying not to lose control. Trying not to rush a thing. Trying not to miss a single breath. Trying to be steady, no matter how he still couldn't believe this…that it was real, that he…_he, Francis_…was there, in front of him, his breaths so ragged and similar to moans; his slim, elegant fingers grasping Matthew's wrist, silently begging him to apply more pressure, or more speed. He was there. And because of him, nonetheless.

When Francis felt his pleasure hit its peak, his free hand shot towards Matthew's nape, dragging his lips away from his neck and pressing a fierce kiss on his mouth. A split second later, the Canadian's hand was coated in a warm, sticky substance, and as Francis, panting, leaned back against the wall, Matthew's instinct kicked in and he brought his fingers to eyelevel, experimentally licking his palm clean.

"Pourquoi me fais-tu ça…?"

Matthew raised his eyes at the whispered question, his index leaving his mouth with a soft popping sound. Curious at Francis' undecipherable tone of voice, Matthew stared at his ex nii-chan, and Francis stared back, his eye colour now closer to a dark shade of purple, his locks sticking to his sweaty cheeks, the heel of his hand still pressed against Matthew's nape.

Francis drew a long breath, but not even the questions pounding in his mind ('Is this supposed to be wrong? Is it creepy? Disturbing? Should I go flog myself for even kissing him? Should I feel like I'm some sick-minded bastard, for staring at him licking my…my…oh, _putain de ciel_…') could prevent him from wanting what he actually wanted.  
>He felt no real boundaries, no fear, no regrets. He couldn't tell guilt from innocence. He couldn't find anything wrong with this…the only wrong choice would've been zipping up his pants and leaving Matthew in that dark closet. Really, earnestly forget about him.<p>

So Francis just gave in, he did something that he had done countless times before, but he felt something different in his movements, in the way he reversed their positions, cornering Matthew against the wall, once again.  
>It was pointless to handle their feelings <em>now<em>, but he promised himself that he would've go back to this subject as soon as possible. He owed Matthew this.  
>He owed Matthew half of his life.<p>

Matthew closed his eyes when he saw Francis kneel to the ground in front of him, pulling the Canadian's zip down and reaching inside his boxers. He took in a long breath, only to gasp as Francis proceeded to run his palm along his sensitive skin, and to moan loudly when he felt Francis' tongue travelling along the lower side of his length.

He heard voices outside the closet, and realised just how noisy his moans could've gotten if Francis kept doing _what_ he was doing _the way_ he was doing it. A blush spread across his face as he laid a hand in Francis' hair, wordlessly begging him to slow down.

He felt almost…grateful when Francis' mouth left his member, but he kind of…didn't expect him to just lick his lips and to go at it again…the hard way. He heard faint suckling sounds as Francis took him almost all the way inside his mouth, but, for the rest, his mind registered nothing else besides the burning, damp feeling of almost hitting the back of the Frenchman's throat…he barely even acknowledged Francis' nails raking against the skin of his thighs, trying to keep him steady.  
>Matt was aware of how much his back hurt from being pressed against the wall, and that he was probably stroking Francis' hair a bit too hard. But if he'd stopped doing all this, his shivers could've made him collapse on the ground, and really…the last thing he wanted was to stop all of this because of his arousal.<p>

"Fr…Fran…"  
>He couldn't bring himself to finish a single word; maybe he was even scared to speak Francis' name out loud. He was afraid he was going to scream it like he actually wanted the Frenchman with all his might. Which was painfully, shockingly true.<br>As he felt all his blood being diverted to his lower abdomen, and all his restraints give in to the sensation, Matthew tossed his head back, not even wincing when it hit the hard concrete of the wall behind him. His brain registered only the high he didn't want to come down from, and the vicious pounding of his heart in his chest.

Francis looked up at him with the corner of his eyes and he suddenly perceived his own heartbeat becoming so crazy that he could hear it in his ears, like a buzzing. How could he have pretended not to see Canada until recently? How could he have denied to even know his name, when all he wanted now was…to see that soft, sweaty, flushed face everyday.  
>To be Matthew's everything.<br>To keep the promise he never made to him, no matter how long it had taken him.  
>To stop chickening out in front of what he professed. Of what he had professed so lightly, for so many wrong persons.<br>To just say it, those three little words…and damn, it didn't even matter in what language. As long as, for once, he could be sincere with Matthew.

For a couple of minutes, they just stayed there, staring at each other; Francis rose to his feet. His expression betrayed none of his thoughts, his thumbs laying feathery caresses on Matthew's wrists, waiting for the Canadian's breath to become even.  
>Then, in complete silence, they got their clothes back on and left the closet, not daring to look at each other. <p>

* * *

><p>"Where the hell were you, frog?"<p>

Arthur's deadpan-but-crossed remark was the first thing to greet Francis as he entered the conference's room.  
>Obviously Canada was going to get away with it. In fact, he was already sitting at his place, his head resting on the table, with Kumajirou roaming around him and asking who he was.<p>

"None of your business, _Angleterre_."  
>The lack of malice in Francis' tone was enough to leave England wordless ('What did I miss?'), and so the conference went on without further inquiries.<p>

But, as everyone stood to leave, Francis dropped a post-it on the table in front of Matthew and walked away with a soft expression on his face. Not a naughty smirk, but an heartfelt smile.  
>Matthew waited until he was <em>actually<em> alone in the room, then opened the piece of paper, Francis' elegant handwriting sending a fuzzy feeling in his stomach:

"_We know we can't elope together, and you have no idea how much this saddens my _romantique_ heart. But I wouldn't mind taking some _very_long vacations overseas, so…yeah. I never imagined you could be my real weakness, Mathieu._

_P.S.: Just to make sure, if you find a bouquet of flowers on your doorstep, next morning…they're not from Netherlands. They're lilies.  
>P.P.S.: You're allowed to kick me back to Europe if I don't succeed in making you my everything and making myself worth of your every second.<em>

_Sincerely yours,_

_France."_


End file.
